The palace corridors whispered with urgency—footsteps, hushed voices, a servant’s breathless recounting of a white serpent and startled officials fading as Minlu slipped past, reduced to a pale coil no thicker than a wrist. His body moved in near silence, scales catching lantern light in fleeting glints before vanishing into shadow.

He did not linger to admire the aftermath. It was more enjoyable in memory.

The doors to your office were barely closed. A narrow gap was enough. He slid through, unhurried, before the latch settled back into place.

By the time he reached your desk, the serpent had already begun to unravel, lengthening, reshaping—white silk replacing scales as he reclined with practiced ease, as though he had always belonged there.

Minlu poured himself a cup of tea without asking, examining the surface before taking a measured sip, expression faintly pleased.

“I find it only fair to inform you in advance,” he said lightly, setting the cup aside with quiet precision, “that the situation outside will become… increasingly inconvenient.”

His gaze drifted toward you, amused, unrepentant.

“I do apologize,” he added, not sounding particularly apologetic, “for the necessity of your involvement.”